Look in that room,{4} judge for yourself;
See what a struggle's made for wealth,
What crushings, bawlings for the pelf,
'Twixt high heads and low legs.
That is Lord K——,{5} and that Lord D——-,{5}
That's Gully{6}; yon's fishmonger C;{5}
A octree-man that; that, Harry Lee,{5}
Who stirr'd Mendoza's pegs.
Or walk up stairs; behold yon board,
Rich with its thrown-down paper hoard,
But oh! abused, beset, adored
By wine-warm'd folks o' nights.
The playing cog, the paying peer,
Pigeon and Greek alike are here;
And some are clear'd, and others clear;
Ask Bayner,{6} and such wights.
4 The new subscription room; where down stairs more than
the "confusion of tongues" prevails, and above a man's
character, if in-sured, would go under the column of "trebly
hazardous." It is really a pity that hone-racing should
appear so close a neighbour to gambling as it does at
Doncastor.
5 My men of letters are not merely alphabet men, but bona
fide characters of consideration upon the turf. I confess
Lord Kennedy is a bit of a favourite of mine, ever since I
saw him so good-natured at the pigeon-shooting matches at
Battersea; and greatly rejoiced was I to find him unplucked
at the more desperate wagerings of the North. He really is
clever in the main, and no subject for St. Luke's, though he
depends much on a bedlamite. Gulley, Crock-ford, and Bland,
need no character; and every body knows Harry Lee fought a
pluck battle with old Dan. But it is "box Harry" with
fighters now.
6 Poor Rayner of C. G. T.—hundreds at one fell swoop! all
his morning's winnings gone in one evening's misfortune. Let
him think on't when next he plays "the School of Reform."
Nay, thick as plagues of Egypt swarm
These emblems of the devil's charm,
When the fall'n angel works a harm
To Eve's demented brood;
Worse than of famish'd shark the maw,
Worse than snake's tooth, or tiger's claw,
The gambler's fish{7} spits from its maw
Hell's poison-filled food!
But, halt! Who're they so deep in port,
Who jostle thus the dons of sport,
With all th' assumed airs of court,
From which indeed they are?
But not from court of Carlton,
Nor James's Court, nor any one;
But where "the fancy" used to run
To see the creatures spar.
The one's a diamond, that you see,
But yet a black one I agree,
And in the way of chancery
A smart Ward in his time;
The other he's from Vinsor down,
And though a great gun in that town,
Has lately been quite basted brown,
And gone off—out of time.{8}
7 The spotted ball now, worse in its woe-causing than the
apple of Ida, is disgorged from a splendidly gilded fish.
What a pity it is that the eternal vociforators of "red
wins, black loses," et vice versa, could not be turned into
Jonahs, and their odd fish into a whale, and let all be cast
into the troubled waters (without a three days' redemption)
they brew for others!
8 "There never were such times." X Xs, in the ring, and
failures in the Fives Court, overcome us now without our
special wonder; for boxers are become betters to extents
that would make the fathers of the P.R. bless themselves and
bolt. Cannon and Ward were, however, both on the right side,
and the nods with which they honoured their old acquaintance
were certainly improvements upon the style of the academy
for manners in Saint Martin's Street.
Look, here's a bevy; who but they!
Just come to make the poor Tykes pay
The charge of post-horses and chay,
That brought them to some tune;
Lo! Piccadilly Goodered laughs,
As when some novice, reeling, quaffs
His gooseberry wine in tipsy draughts,
At his so pure saloon.{9}
Good gracious, too! (oh, what a trade
Can oyster sales at night be made!)
Here swallowing wine, like lemonade,
Sits Mrs. H's man{10}!
And by the Loves and Graces all,
By Vestris' trunks, Maria's shawl,
There trots the nun herself, so tall,
A flirting of a fan,
And blushing like the "red, red rose,"
With paly eyes and a princely nose,
And laced in Nora Crinas clothes,
(Cool, like a cucumber,)
With beaver black, with veil so green,
And huntress boots 'neath skirt quite clean,
She looks Diana's self—a quean,
In habit trimm'd with fur.
And Mr. Wigelsworth he flew,{11}
And Miss and Mistress W.
To bow and court'sy to the new
Arrival at their Boy;
9 "Lightly tread, 'tis hallow'd ground." I dare not go on;
you have been before me, Bernard: (vide vol. i. p. 295, of
Spy). But really it will be worth while for us to look in on
Goodered some fine morning, say three, a.m., when he gets
his print of Memnon home, to which, at Sheardowns, he was so
liberal as to subscribe. He will discourse to you of the
round table!
10 "If I stand here, I saw him."—Shakespeare, Hamlet.
11 The host of the Black Boy at Doncastor, who really pro-
vided race ordinaries in no ordinary way.
Though he was Black, yet she was fair;
And sure I am that nothing there
With that clear nymph could aught compare,12
Or more glad eyes employ.
But where there is, after all, but little reason in many of the scenes witnessed at the period I quote, why should I continue to rhyme about them? Let it therefore suffice, that with much of spirit there was some folly, with a good deal of splendour an alloy of dross, and, with real consequence, a good deal of that which was assumed. Like a showy drama, the players (there was a goodly company in the north), dresses (they were of all colours of the rainbow), and decorations (also various and admirable), during the time of performance, were of the first order; but that over, and the green and dressing rooms displayed many a hero sunk into native insignificance, and the trappings of Tamerlane degenerated to the hungry coat of a Jeremy Diddler (and there were plenty of "Raising the Wind" professors at Doncaster), or the materiel of the king and queen of Denmark to the dilapidated wardrobe of Mr. and Mrs. Sylvester Daggerwood.
Mais apropos de le drame, Monsieur L'Espion, what is your report of our theatres? Have you seen the monkeys? Are they not, for a classic stage, grand,
——Those happiest smiles
That play'd on her ripe lip, seem'd not to know
What guests were in her eyes, which parted thence
As pearls from diamonds dropt. In brief,
Her room would be a rarity most beloved,
If all could so become it."
Shakespeare, a little altered.
I would just say here, that if any disapprove of my picture of the lady, they may take Bernard Blackmantle's magnifique, et admirable? Do they not awake in you visions of rapturous delight, as you contrast their antics and mimicry, their grotesque and beautiful grimaces, their cunning leers, with the eye of Garrick, the stately action of Kemble, the sarcasm of Cooke, the study of Henderson, the commanding port of Siddons, the fire of Kean, the voice of Young, the tones of O'Neill? When you see them, as the traveller Dampier has it, "dancing from tree to tree over your head," and hear them "chattering, and making a terrible noise," do you not think of Lord Chesterfield, and exclaim, "A well-governed stage is an ornament to society, an encouragement to wit and learning, and a school of virtue, modesty, and good manners?" Do you not feel, when you behold the flesh and blood punch and man-monkey of Covent Garden Theatre "twist his body into all manner of shapes," or "Monsieur Gouffe," of the Surrey, "hang himself for the benefit of Mr. Bradley," that we may pay our money, and "see, and see, and see again, and still glean something new, something to please, and something to instruct;" and, lastly, in a fit of enthusiasm, exclaim,
"To wake the soul by tender strokes of art,
To raise the genius and to mend the heart,
To make mankind in conscious virtue bold,
Live o'er each scene, and be what they behold;"
For this great Jocko's self first leap'd the stage;
For this was puffd in ev'ry well-bribed page,
From evening "Courier" down to Sunday "Age!"{13}
13 It is suspicious, to say the least of it, this excess of
praise to an old representation; for, after all, punch, the
original punch, punch in the street, though not so loud, is
ten times more to "our manner born," and much more original.
That the beings who banish legitimate performers should
puff, till we grow sick, a "thing of shreds and patches!"
But "the world is still deceived by ornament."